


Hours at Sea

by Niyin



Series: All your faves are aspec [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Aromantic, Aromantic Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Aromantic Jaskier | Dandelion, BAMF Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Bathing/Washing, Boys Kissing, Coming Out, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Needs a Hug, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Friendship, Jaskier | Dandelion Needs a Hug, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Miscommunication, Queerplatonic Relationships, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:54:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24112375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niyin/pseuds/Niyin
Summary: Jaskier is in love with the world. He has always been, even if maybe not in the way most people seem to think.Geralt has never felt love. It’s just one more thing that separates him from humanity, one more thing he is lacking.It takes them a long time to realise they feel the same way.(Or: Geralt and Jaskier both don’t feel romantic love, but they experience it vastly differently.)((Rated Mature for a non-graphic sex scene in chapter 1))
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: All your faves are aspec [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1769029
Comments: 10
Kudos: 49





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I recently had a discussion about whether being aromantic is defined by the lack of romantic attraction or the presence of other forms of love. It somehow sparked this fic.
> 
> Warning: internalised aphobia (on Geralt's part), though this will eventually be addressed (more specific warnings in the endnote)
> 
> The title is from Sara Teasdale's "I have loved hours at sea"

Jaskier is in love with the world. 

He has been for as long as he can remember. Even when he was a boy, trapped in the golden cage of his family’s estate, he used to bombard anyone who would listen with his questions – be they his tutors, the servants or even the scary-looking guards and soldiers stationed at the barracks off the main building. The world seemed huge and bright in ways he could hardly fathom, filled to the brim with wonders and adventures.

When Jaskier reaches his teenage years, he starts to gain a different appreciation for the people around him. There is beauty in everything, in the swish of a maid’s dress as she hums softly to herself or the movement of strong muscles as the smith’s son fans the flames for his father’s anvil. He manages to escape his tutors for a trip into town, just to wander and look, and doesn’t feel any guilt when they complain to his parents later. Eventually, they grow tired of his little evasions and declare his education complete so far as they can teach him. Instead he is sent off to Oxenfurt.

Oxenfurt is bigger and more vibrant than Jaskier could have ever imagined. He throws himself into his studies again, spends the evenings out with men and women and some people who are neither or both. It is here that he learns the joys of discovering both his own body and theirs, learns what it means when girls flutter they lashes or guys boast and show off, learns the many words and little signals that lead to spending the night in someone else’s bed or making a mess of his own.

It takes him a long time to realise that he doesn’t seem to love in the same way most other people do. 

To be fair, his upbringing was never particularly romantic. His parents weren’t a love match and he had never expected a different fate for himself. Jaskier knows how bards and storytellers like to embellish their tales, so he always assumed that the stories about love were exaggerated just the same. He is very surprised to find that many of his companions seem to believe in them, or even more, tell similar tales of their own.

Still, it doesn’t bother him overly much. Jaskier’s love is radiant and oftentimes fierce. It makes his skin tingle and his stomach twist with excitement, sends him on sprees of poetic inspiration where he composes song after song for his countless muses. It hardly takes any embellishment to make them sound like other love songs. If his companions seem to get something else from the kisses they share than he does, so what? His enjoyment is no less than theirs.

The Countess de Stael is the first person to hold his interest for longer than a few weeks. Jaskier is 19 and nearly ready to graduate (first of his class, he is proud to add) and she is the most beautiful being he has ever seen. He could spend hours merely looking at her, despite how the desire to touch and feel her smooth, warm skin burns low in his stomach. She enjoys his attention and his songs as well, though she never lets him get too close. She is longing for the kind of romance they live and die for in fairytales and he is too much of a free spirit, or so she says. Getting involved with him would only break her heart.

Instead, she breaks his.

Heartbreak is awful. There is no escape from the agony as every little thing seems to remind him of her. The gems they sell at the market are the same colour as her eyes, the sweet pastries a sympathetic friend brings him are her favourite. Only his music is still safe and he plays day and night, much to the annoyance of his neighbours. At least he gets several new songs from the experience, so it’s not completely in vain.

Jaskier leaves Oxenfurt soon after and decides to try his luck as a wandering bard. Despite all that has happened, his heart feels just as wide as before when he sets out on the road. He will never forget the Countess, but the world is too beautiful to mourn what could have been any longer. 

In many ways, travelling is easy. Jaskier gets to see incredible places and wondrous creatures. The people he meets and flirts with never expect more than he is willing to give. They know he will set out again the next morning, so most of them are perfectly content with a night – or several – in their bed or on the ground or in one very memorable occasion on a boat in the middle of a lake (an experience Jaskier wouldn’t recommend, as they had nearly capsized five times). 

Then Jaskier meets Geralt and suddenly he has someone to travel _with_ , which is even more fun. They have never shared a bed (at least not so far, though Jaskier would be perfectly willing), but they share time and meals and conversation, even if it is mostly Jaskier talking. His love for Geralt is bright and growing by the day, filling him with warmth every time the witcher does something that shows how much he truly cares (even if it means spending one more night on the hard forest ground because the widow’s money was meant for food and a room for the night). Geralt’s dry wit makes Jaskier laugh and the way he moves with a sword makes heat simmer low in Jaskier’s gut. He has never been so happy to share his life with someone.

Yes - Jaskier is in love with the whole wide world and especially with his travel companion. Life is wonderful.

* * *

Geralt has never been in love.

He might have loved his mother once, before she abandoned him, but now her face is a vague memory that brings more pain than joy. His teachers at Kaer Morhen were strict and they didn’t like any attachment forming between the boys, knowing fully well that many of them would not survive the trials. They couldn’t entirely stop all friendships or short-lived romances, but Geralt had taken their warnings as advice and mostly kept away from the others. With his mother’s betrayal fresh in his mind, it wasn't too difficult.

He still heard some of the boys talk, of course, and noticed the lingering looks yet fewer of the older boys would exchange when they thought no one was watching, looks he didn't understand back then (still doesn't entirely understand, but now he has learned to keep his questions to himself). The one time he did ask, the boy blushed and scowled and told him that it's no different than what Geralt felt when he looked at girls, really, and that loving boys was perfectly natural. Geralt was too scared to admit that he didn't feel anything special at all when he looked at girls, besides maybe appreciation for the way Saskia (who had lived next-door from his mother) had been able to whistle so loudly it could be heard all through the village.

Even Geralt couldn’t close himself off completely, though. There is Eskel, who doesn’t mind sharing silence instead of words and never got angry when Geralt bested him in a fight, instead smiling and promising that he'd get him next time. He was the only one who noticed when Geralt cried at night, those first weeks at Kaer Morhen. Instead of laughing at him (like Geralt feared), the other boy slipped quietly in his bed and they fell asleep again like that, back to back. Geralt has never had a brother, but he thinks this is what it might feel like.

Then there is Lambert, who is such an asshole that Geralt honestly isn't entirely sure how they had even become friends (except he is honest to a fault and unfailingly loyal to his friends). And Coën, who usually kept away from the others, too conscious of the scars that some sort of childhood disease had left on his face, but cracked hilarious jokes when Eskel managed to coax him out of his shell.

There had been others as well, but Geralt doesn’t like to think of them. They hadn’t made it through the trials.

All he remembers of the trials is white hot agony, pain so fierce it felt like he was burning alive and so endless he was half convinced it would go on forever. He had begged for death, unsure if he was speaking _~~screaming~~_ out loud or only in his own head. But against all expectations Geralt had survived, had woken weak as a lamb and covered in vomit and other things he didn’t even want to think about. He was later told that the whole experience had been over in mere hours. Apparently his response is so extraordinarily good that they immediately select him for further trials while he is still too weak to protest. Vesemir calls him “special”, though Geralt knows that it's only a nice way to say _different_.

In the end, he comes out of the trials with hair as white as the snow that covers Kaer Morhen that winter, as well as the yellow eyes all the boys now have. All the surviving boys, that is.

They say that witchers are monsters, that the trials burn away all humanity and leave them unable to feel any emotions. Geralt never bothers to correct the rumours. They are true enough, at least for him, even though he knows it’s not because of his mutations. He had never understood any of the whispers of the other boys, had never loved anyone even when he was still human. That isn’t a mutation, it’s a flaw of his very own. If love is what makes someone human, then he was never human at all.

Maybe that’s why the mutations had taken so well. Because he was already a monster long before the trials.

In a way, the rumours almost bring him relief, at least for a little while. If none of the other witchers feel emotions, then maybe he won’t be alone in this anymore. Maybe he can simply blame his _defect_ on the trials and repress all memories of before. Have the new start he has wished for.

Then he meets Eskel one night in a tavern in some far away village.

The other witcher is sitting in a dark corner of the room, as far from the fire as possible. The scowl on his face is uncharacteristically sombre as he fixes what certainly isn’t the first mug of mead he’s had this evening. Geralt only hesitates for a moment before he walks over and sits down across from his brother. He doesn’t say anything, used to the silence, and neither does Eskel as they share their drinks. 

It’s only when Geralt is helping Eskel up the stairs to the room they will share for the night that his brother speaks, voice rough with what Geralt recognises as unshed tears. 

“She called me a monster. I told her that I loved her and she said that all witchers are monsters and I should get lost.”

Geralt feels something like ice spread down his back, equal parts commiseration (because Eskel is the least monstrous of them all and he doesn’t deserve to suffer like this) and, a lot more selfishly, dread (because if witchers still feel love it means that the rumours are wrong, that he is alone after all, and no one will ever understand-)

He doesn’t say anything as he helps Eskel into bed, taking the floor for himself. In the morning, they pretend that the previous evening never happened. Eskel is back to his usual jovial self, even though his jokes fall a little flat and the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Geralt doesn’t know how to address any of it, so instead he finds a chimera for them to slay. They spend the reward on food and more drinks and afterwards, Eskel slaps Geralt on the shoulder before they part ways. Geralt swears himself to never speak of this, of his lack of love to anyone.

Several years later, Geralt meets Jaskier. Though “meeting” might be a too kind word for the way the bard barges into his life, ignores all warnings (and punches) and makes himself at home right there, in the space that was previously only reserved for his witcher brothers.

Geralt has never wanted to travel with anyone else. Witchers usually hunt alone and everyone else steers well clear of them, so he has never even spared a thought to how one might get rid of an unwanted travel companion. In the end, he simply decides to ignore him. The bard will likely fuck off on his own after some nights on the cold hard ground, or at the latest after a few close encounters with the creatures Geralt hunts. Or he will simply realise how much of a monster Geralt himself is and decide that he’s unworthy of any songs.

That’s probably his first mistake.

Jaskier, it turns out, is not as easily scared off as Geralt had first expected. He keeps tagging along wherever Geralt goes, uncaring of the danger he puts himself in. After so many years _(all his life)_ on his own, it’s strange how quickly he grows used to the constant chatter, the groaning early in the morning or after a long day on the road, the easy smiles that still make his heart flutter weirdly. No one just smiles at witchers, at _Geralt_. Jaskier is as excitable as a child – more so, if Geralt remembers his own childhood correctly. He laughs at the different flowers that grow at the side of the road and tries his best to imitate bird calls as they pass through a forest, happy as the literal larks. Where others only see hardship and danger, Jaskier sees adventures, much to Geralt’s continuous confusion and occasional chagrin.

The first time they reach a larger town, Jaskier is quick to sneak off with some woman or other. His singing and easy charm often attract a small following, at least now that he is singing about heroics and heartbreak rather than abortion. Jaskier seems to enjoy the flirting, trading back and forth banter and smooth compliments. It always makes Geralt vaguely uncomfortable, like someone will be able to see his secret, his deficiency when it comes to matters of love by mere proximity.

Jaskier doesn’t flirt with Geralt, not since their first meeting, though occasionally Geralt catches the bard’s looks when he baths or practices his fighting. It reminds him of the looks some of the boys at Kaer Morhen used to trade and it makes something in his stomach go hot and liquid, even as he has to suppress the irrational urge to hide himself from those eyes. 

Honestly, Geralt is unsure how he feels about sex. He’s met many handsome men and beautiful women and certainly desired some of them in the past, has even bedded some before, but most humans hate him (rightfully so) and it’s generally safer to stay away. Not that Jaskier ever seemed to care.

Despite the way Jaskier flirts as easily as he breathes, he has always come back to their room at the end of the night without even the slightest trace of disappointment. So when they spend the night in a bigger town and Jaskier winks at Geralt as he follows some lady _(long blonde hair, pretty blue dress, has been clapping and cheering at Jaskier’s more romantic ballads all night)_ outside, Geralt doesn’t know how to feel. He resigns himself to the thought that this will be it. They have travelled together long enough, but now that someone else has caught Jaskier’s interest he will surely want to stay behind. Jaskier deserves to be with a pretty girl who loves him as much as he seems to love everyone around him. What could Geralt offer him?

And yet, the next morning when Geralt is securing Roach’s saddlebags, there the bard is. Slightly pale from lack of sleep and with several small bruises on his neck that leave no doubt about last night’s activities, but smiling and chatting as always. It makes something twist inside Geralt, not exactly jealousy but not too far off either. He doesn’t mind the way Jaskier shares his love with the world, likes it even, but. It would be… nice to be loved like that, for once, even if he wouldn't be able to feel the same way back.

Geralt squashes the thought, frowning at himself, and Jaskier makes a comment about how he should be careful because otherwise his face might get stuck like that and not everyone likes his brooding as much as Jaskier does. It only makes him frown harder.

He’s better off without anyone loving him anyway. This way, there’s no pressure to return any feelings.

* * *

The first time they fall into bed together, Geralt has just killed a kikimora.

He comes back to the inn still dripping water, smelling distinctly of swamp and rot and hair dark with blood and viscera. The kikimora had pushed him underwater, long legs stabbing down again and again as he scrambled for his sword. When his right hand finally closed around the familiar hilt, it was all he could do to stab back upwards at it. He hadn’t been fast enough to avoid the dark blood that gushed forth when he pierced its head. He tried to wash himself off crudely, afraid that he wouldn’t be able to get back into the inn otherwise, but the swamp water was more mud than anything. All in all, Geralt doesn’t feel very good about this contract.

Jaskier is normally very particular about his clothing and its proximity to dirt or gore, so Geralt is vaguely surprised when the bard immediately comes forward to help him up the stairs to their room. Before he can really process what is happening, he has already been divested of his armour and is sitting in a steaming bath, just a few degrees hotter than humans usually like it. _Jaskier must have talked to the innkeeper_ , he thinks absent-mindedly, before another thought crosses his mind. _How does Jaskier know how he likes his baths?_

The hands in his hair very effectively shut down any other thoughts and Geralt’s eyes automatically slide closed as he leans back into the touch with a hum. Oh, that is _good_. The potions always make the world too bright and loud, stripping away any possible escape from the jumble of smells and sounds and impressions. The darkness behind his closed eyes is a welcome reprieve.

It’s quiet around them and Geralt allows himself to get lost in the sensation of the fingers carding through his hair, sending little tingles across his scalp as they untangle the strands. He can block out everything else and focus only on the feeling, on the smell of wood and something brisk and and clear that he recognizes distantly as Jaskier.

There is a soft noise behind him and Geralt scowls as the fingers still and then pull away. He blinks his eyes open, fighting against the weight of his own eyelids before he suddenly remembers where he is. Who he is with. A moment later, he realises that he is hard.

Despite the hot water, Geralt suddenly feels cold. This hasn’t happened in… in…

Before Geralt can calculate an appropriate timeframe, he is again torn from his thoughts, this time by a hand on his shoulder. The light squeeze makes him realise how tense he is and he consciously relaxes his shoulders and arms, though he still can’t seem to move, not even to cover himself. Then Jaskier is suddenly right there in front of him, wide-eyed in the face of Geralt’s mortification. He still hasn’t pulled his hand back, Geralt notices absently. 

The bard licks his lips and Geralt can’t help the way his eyes follow the movement. Everything is in stark detail which probably means that his own eyes are still black with the after-effects of _Blizzard_. In all the months they have travelled together, he has never let Jaskier see the way the potions bring out monster under his skin. He should look away or better yet, close his eyes. And yet, Geralt can’t seem to do either.

Jaskier clears his throat, a nervous sound despite how the corners of his mouth have ticked up in amusement. Geralt tears his gaze away from Jaskier’s lips to meet his eyes, forgetting again why this is such a bad idea.

“Is this…” the bard hesitates, obviously trying to find the right word. “Alright?” he finishes finally.

Jaskier seems like someone trying to approach a wild animal, ready to move back at the slightest hint of discomfort, and Geralt nearly laughs at the absurdity of the situation. Here he is, eyes still in their full monstrous black, a stark reminder of the beast inside him – and yet Jaskier is the one asking about Geralt’s comfort.

The hand on his shoulder twitches as if to pull away and the need to laugh dies a very sudden death. Geralt has already moved before he can reach a conscious decision, his own hand coming to rest on top of the bard's. Jaskier lets out a little huff of surprise at the contact and Geralt squeezes his hand, searching Jaskier's eyes intently.

“Is this?”

Geralt’s voice comes out rougher than anticipated and Jaskier licks his lips again, this time in definite approval. There is a small smile blooming on his face. It may be the post-fight haze talking, but it’s the most beautiful thing Geralt has seen in a long time.

“Absolutely,” Jaskier assures him, leaning forward with that flirty little grin Geralt has seen so many times before he follows behind some woman or man at the end of the night. It makes something twist in his chest and Geralt leans forward, capturing Jaskier’s lips with his own before the bard can say anything else.

He doesn’t have much experience with kissing and it should be painfully awkward, but apparently Jaskier has enough experience for both of them. After the first tentative movements, Geralt lets Jaskier take the lead, opening his lips when Jaskier runs his tongue along them. Jaskier moans appreciatively, biting once on Geralt’s lower lip before his tongue is suddenly right there, exploring the new space.

By the time they have to break away for air, Geralt feels warm and light. Jaskier is panting slightly, a beautiful flush high on his cheeks. His hands have moved to Geralt’s chest sometime during the kiss and he shivers slightly under the touch. He has forgotten how good it feels to simply be touched, though the fact that it is Jaskier touching him is certainly a very nice bonus. So is the clear intention in Jaskier’s eyes.

“So, do you want to move this to the bed before I get a crick in my neck from leaning halfway across that tub?”

He pats the bathtub and Geralt nearly (very embarrassingly) whines as the hands leave him. Instead he forces the sound back and gets up just a bit too quickly. Water sloshes on the floor, soaking Jaskier’s pants and shirt. 

“Shit!"

Geralt tenses, prepared to apologize because he can't even do this right, _stupid_ , he doesn't deserve this soft touch anyway-

Jaskier must see some of his thoughts in his eyes, because he immediately backtracks, hands moving wildly. "Okay, no, I definitely like your enthusiasm. It's alright. More than alright, in fact. No complaints at all. Just didn’t expect the shower. That's all.”

The rambling relaxes something inside Geralt. This is still Jaskier. There is no need to be so nervous.

“They will dry faster if you take them off,” he suggests, cutting through Jaskier's reassurances. The bard pauses, that same little grin from before back on his face.

“Is that so?”

“You could hang them by the fire. The bed is warm enough without clothes,” he adds, emboldened by the twinkle in Jaskier’s eyes. The bard’s laugh sends a pleasant warmth through his gut.

“Oh, I see how it is. Someone is feeling clever today.” Jaskier’s smile softens the bite of his words as he steps forward to stand flush with Geralt, their chests nearly touching. 

“Think you can keep me warm?”

Geralt feels the bard's breath against his lips as Jaskier leans upwards and into him. The line should be cheesy, but somehow he doesn’t feel like laughing as Jaskier’s hands again glide across his shoulders.

“I can try,” he replies, tilting his head slightly downwards until his mouth is nearly on Jaskier’s.

Their noses bump together and Jaskier laughs, taking a step back. His hands slide down Geralt’s arms to take his hand instead as he steps further back, pulling Geralt with him towards the bed.

“Then go on. I'm certainly up for several rounds of trials.”

Needless to say, neither of them is cold that night.


	2. Chapter 2

Jaskier has never been this happy before.

Privately, he can admit that he was worried what this would mean for them. It's not that he has never thought of Geralt this way before – _come on_. The witcher is all muscles and heroics and one overly large heart that is better guarded than even the riches of Cintra. If Jaskier ever had a type, this is it. 

But Jaskier's whole profession relies on reading people. He is used to noticing the little things, a bit of tension in someone’s shoulders, a hint of a smile that might suggest they are open to whatever he has proposed. Whenever he – or anyone else, though that happens more rarely than he would have assumed, given Geralt’s… _Geralt_ \- tries to flirt with the witcher, Geralt draws back into his shell even more than usually. It may not be immediately obvious from an outsider’s perspective, but Jaskier knows his friend. He can see the way Geralt's eyes suddenly grow darker when someone approaches him. The way his shoulders tense the tiniest bit whenever Jaskier smiles at him as he is singing about love and heartbreak. As if Geralt is preparing for a fight.

So Jaskier can’t help his surprise when Geralt comes back from a hunt, still covered in blood and kikimora guts and who knows what else, and immediately homes in on Jaskier. They have been travelling together for months now and seeing Geralt covered in things that were never meant to see the light of day has become depressingly routine. Jaskier has already ordered a bath for when Geralt returns, so now he only has to catch the barmaid’s eyes and nod as he helps Geralt up the stairs.

The bath is quickly prepared and Jaskier carefully takes off each piece of Geralt’s armour, checking for injuries as he goes. Geralt still hasn’t so much as looked at him, but he also doesn’t protest when Jaskier makes him lift his arms to take off his shirt. Then Jaskier meets Geralt’s eyes for the first time and it feels distinctly like someone has just punched the breath out of him.

_Oh._

For a second or two, Jaskier can only gape. He knows that Geralt has a whole pouch of potions that he reserves for the more dangerous contracts, but most of the creatures they have encountered so far had apparently not been deserving of such measures and if one was sufficiently dangerous to require a potion, Geralt had been adamant that Jaskier stay behind at the nearest town. He has never seen the effect the potions have on his friend.

Geralt’s eyes are completely black. There are dark veins spreading out across his face, stark against ghostly white skin and hair. It makes him look inhuman, like one of the ghosts or demons the witcher hunts. Jaskier is overcome with a sudden need to touch, to _taste_ -

Geralt shifts and Jaskier is abruptly brought back to the present. So he might have a thing for Geralt’s less-than-human side. That’s… not all that surprising, actually. Something to think about, maybe.

He doesn’t waste any more time, shuffling Geralt over to the bath before the water can get cold (or cool to a temperature comfortable for regular paltry humans, at least). Geralt visibly relaxes once he is submerged in the water, a drawn-out breath leaving his lungs as his head tilts backwards, and Jaskier can’t help himself. His hands cradle Geralt’s head, fingers carding through the pale strands, uncaring of the bits of kikimora still caught there.

To his great surprise, Geralt _leans into_ the touch with a barely audible hum. Jaskier’s breath catches at the easy trust as Geralt’s eyes slide closed and he knows with sudden clarity that this is it. He is entirely lost, gone on this impossible man with all his grumbling and scowls and mile-wide caring streak.

Needless to say, the rest of the night is extremely pleasurable. There is a quick moment of panic when they both wake the next morning and Jaskier feels Geralt tense against him, because what if this was all the potions’ doing? He doesn’t know what kind of effect they have on Geralt besides enhancing his ability to fight. Surely, anything resembling intoxication would only be harmful in that regard. But what if they do make him more suggestible in some way? Has Jaskier pressured him into this? Has he made a mistake and ruined this, ruined _them_ forever?

There is a grunt and Geralt shifts to face him, eyes back to their normal gold as he scowls. “You are thinking too much. Stop it.”

The familiar rough tone is enough that Jaskier can breathe again, though his laugh still comes out too shaky. “I don’t know if I’ve ever stopped thinking in my life. The downside of possessing such a great intellect. It is a burden I will have to bear.”

“Maybe I should have the barmaid call a healer. You must have hit that big head of yours last night,” Geralt deadpans.

Jaskier gasps in indignation, though he isn’t sure he entirely succeeds at hiding his relief. If Geralt is still willing to tease him, then maybe they will be okay after all. “I will have you know that I graduated first of my class at Oxenfurt,” he declares haughtily, channelling the etiquette lessons of his childhood as he looks down his nose at Geralt in his best impression of _‘do you know who I_ am _?’_. “You are speaking to Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, graduated _summa cum laude_ \- with the highest honours - in the seven liberal arts at Oxenfurt University.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow, distinctly unimpressed even as he plays along. “I apologize, Your Grace. I wasn’t aware I was conversing with royalty."

Jaskier can’t suppress a grin at how ridiculous the title sounds on Geralt’s lips. “It’s Lord Pankratz, actually. Your Grace is reserved for dukes or duchesses. But I appreciate the sentiment.” He stretches out on his side, propping his head up with one hand so he can look at Geralt more easily. “We are… alright, then?”

Geralt is silent for a long moment, scowl back on his face. “As long as you don’t expect me to address you as Lord Pankratz from now on,” he says at last. Then his eyes widen almost imperceptibly. “And you won’t sing about anything that happened last night.”

Jaskier pretends to pout. “It could be a favourite of the people! The tale of how the fierce White Wolf was tamed by a little lark- mmph!”

He is interrupted when Geralt knocks his arm out from underneath him, moving lightning fast. Jaskier’s head has barely hit the pillow when Geralt is already above him, holding him down with only his weight and the help of one arm across Jaskier’s wrists. Jaskier feels an involuntary shiver running down his body. _Oh._

“No songs. Not a single word,” Geralt repeats warningly.

Jaskier bucks his hips, feeling his bare skin shift against Geralt’s, feeling Geralt's growl vibrating against his chest as he bears down again.

“Well,” Jaskier says, sounding as breathless as he feels, still grinning widely. “If you don't want me speaking, maybe you should just silence me.”

He raises his head in invitation and Geralt growls again, meeting him halfway in a crash of lips and teeth and tongues.

They set out a lot later than planned that day.

* * *

Geralt is... cautiously happy.

It feels almost sacrilegious to admit. He was raised as a weapon against the monsters lurking in the dark, a rampart between humanity and anything that might harm them. He has long accepted that this is what he was born to do. Why else should he be the way he is, unable to feel the same as everyone else, inhuman even before the trials ever began?

A weapon doesn't get to be happy. And yet... when Jaskier smiles the wide smile that makes his eyes shine, a smile that Geralt somehow managed to _put there_ with something he said or did, he feels strangely content.

He isn't in love with Jaskier. That much hasn't changed; Geralt isn't any more human than he was a few weeks ago. But he does enjoy life far more than ever before. It all seems brighter somehow, the highs more colourful and the lows easier to bear. Jaskier's incessant chatter and bumble that belies the keen intelligence underneath. The songs that follow Geralt everywhere - whether from Jaskier's own lips or those of other bards who have picked them up. The sex.

He isn't certain what to call this thing between them. Sometimes Jaskier seeks out his eyes when he sings one of his love songs, the ones that make the women (and quite a few men) in his audience swoon and the couples smile maudlinly, and Geralt wonders. The thought that Jaskier might be in love with him, that Geralt is merely stringing him along, sends a sharp stab of guilt through his chest. He should talk to Jaskier, confess to him that Geralt will never be able to love him, but every time Geralt opens his mouth the words just won't come out. He is too selfish to give up this little spark of happiness so soon after he has found it, doesn't think he could bear losing Jaskier. Not now. Not yet. So he keeps telling himself _soon, soon_ even as the weeks turn into months turn into years.

Plus, Jaskier still has other partners on occasion, so whatever they have clearly isn't exclusive. It doesn't happen as often anymore, but every now and then Jaskier will find some beautiful person who makes him flash that flirty little grin. Geralt doesn't mind. It makes his guilt a little easier to bear and he knows that Jaskier's real smile, the one that is just a bit too wild and unbridled in its joy, belongs to Geralt alone. He is the one Jaskier will accompany in the morning when they set out towards the next town, the one Jaskier has somehow deemed worthy of his time and his songs. 

They're keeping it casual and it mostly works, barring some smaller disagreements. The worst one is when Jaskier drags Geralt to Cintra to attend the royal ball in honour of Princess Pavetta's betrothal and Geralt somehow ends up with a child surprise. 

Jaskier follows him as he strides away from the hall, not really seeing or caring where he is going other than _away_. He has to get out of the castle, better yet, leave the entire fucking country and never come back. The child will never even have to know about him. Queen Calanthe will surely manage to quash any rumours of today’s events. Her talent for violence is only overshadowed by her love for her family and she certainly won’t want to lose her granddaughter to a _witcher_ of all things. 

The life on the Path is harsh and unforgiving and Geralt wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Wouldn’t wish _himself_ on anyone. Children need love to grow, that much he knows. Any child placed in his care would only be tainted by what he is, defiled by his own lack of humanity. He shudders to even think about it.

“That certainly was an interesting turn of events,” Jaskier remarks behind him and Geralt wheels around to face him with a snarl. There are lives on the line, not least of all the one of his- of _the_ child surprise. How can Jaskier still treat it so casually?

“Kind of ironic, isn’t it?” Jaskier continues, blind to the turmoil in Geralt’s mind. “I mean, you help a man claim his former child surprise against the will of the queen… and in turn end up with said man’s own child. Once again very much against the queen's will.”

“Shut up.”

“Though I do assume the bond between you and the young prince or princess will be much more… familiar in nature.”

“ _SHUT UP!_ ” 

The roar shakes the air between them, Geralt’s voice barely recognisable even to his own ears. Jaskier actually takes a step back, eyes wide as he raises his hands in a placating gesture, and Geralt is suddenly afraid. Afraid that he will ruin whatever this is between them if he stays here even just a minute longer. Maybe that would be a rightful punishment for his own stupidity.

“Geralt-“

“I am going to leave,” Geralt interrupts him, carefully enunciating each word. He can’t lose Jaskier as well, not right now. But the bard will want to know why Geralt is so upset, will demand answers, and then Geralt will have to tell him that the worst rumours about witchers are all true for him, that he has never and will never love, and Jaskier will be disgusted-

Without another word, Geralt spins on his heels and walks away as fast as he can without breaking into a run. Later he doesn't remember how he got into the stables, if he met anyone else on the way or if they were all sufficiently terrified to steer clear. All that matters is that Geralt is alone now, alone with Roach, and he doesn’t hesitate to swing himself onto her back and ride straight for the palace gates and onwards, urging her on through the night until the city of Cintra is no more than a distant impression. Then he finds a tavern, rubs Roach down in apology for the harsh ride, and for the first time in a long while gets very, very drunk.

It takes several months and many more miles before he sees Jaskier again, in another tavern in small town just off the Mahakam mountains. The bard approaches his table with a nervous little wave and a hesitant smile that seems out of place when directed at Geralt. 

“Mind if I sit?”

Geralt only hums, but he does move his mug of ale a little to the side to make room for the plate Jaskier is carrying. Jaskier’s smile gains a bit of its normal strength back as he slides onto the bench.

“I heard that the town was asking for a witcher to help them with their drowner problem,” he says by way of explanation, though Geralt hasn’t asked – hasn’t dared ask if Jaskier was looking for him or only passing by. Sometimes the world is surprisingly small, especially when you don't want to see someone. Jaskier's plate sits untouched between them as he studies Geralt who has to suppress the sudden urge to shift in his seat. “Are we still alright?”

The question, uncharacteristically quiet and serious, reminds Geralt of their first night and morning together, years ago when all of this was still so new. He feels just as uncertain now than he did back then, but this time he can’t distract Jaskier with a joke and a kiss. The bard deserves an honest answer.

“I hope so.”

It’s the best Geralt can offer and as so often it doesn’t feel enough, but Jaskier only nods. 

“If you ever need to talk, you know where to find me,” he offers. Geralt only grunts. He will never be able to talk about this, least of all with Jaskier, but he can’t exactly say that.

And so Jaskier finally digs into his stew, slowly slipping back into his usual chatter with hardly any awkward pauses. Afterwards he comes back up to Geralt’s room and they share a bed, though they don’t have sex. Geralt lies awake long after Jaskier’s breathing has evened out in sleep, gazing into the dark as he listens to his slow heartbeat.

He can never lose Jaskier again. The knowledge is almost frightening with its clarity. Whatever else happens, he will have to protect this, to shield the bright flame of Jaskier’s spirit from anything else. The mere thought of anything harming his bard makes his chest feel tight and his fists long to hit something.

Witchers are made to be weapons, forced to give up their own humanity in order to protect humankind from the monsters lurking in the dark. If it means that he gets to protect Jaskier, then perhaps Geralt can learn to be happy with his lot.

* * *

Everything is fine for a few years after the mess in Cintra. Geralt and Jaskier slip back into their old routine of travelling, songs, monster slaying and sex. Geralt suppresses any thought of the past and deliberately ignores the soldiers talking about how Queen Calanthe is enlisting more guards to protect her newly-born granddaughter, the lion cub of Cintra. Life is mostly good, even if Geralt’s guilt is heavy as ever, nights of sleep lost to worries and doubts.

Then Geralt goes after a djinn, nearly gets Jaskier killed and meets Yennefer. All in one day.

The sorceress is an enigma wrapped in a mystery wrapped in _hunger_. Hunger for power, for control, for _love_. There isn’t any thought of romance between them when her eyes rake over him in the bath or when she pushes him down on the ground on the lower floor of the mayor’s house, between the drapes and pillows and riches.

He recognises something of himself in her, that burning knowledge that he is never enough, the hunger for more, and for a second he thinks that maybe they are the same. Even if she wasn’t born an abomination like Geralt, magic clearly took something from her that she is now fighting to get back. And maybe…

It’s this thought in combination with the knowledge that she has saved Jaskier’s life that causes him to make another big mistake. There is a selfish part inside of him that wants to take and take, to hoard even the tiniest bit of love or understanding and never let go. It’s the same part that screams whenever he considers telling Jaskier the truth, that warns him that the bard will leave him and never come back once he sees Geralt for what he truly is-

“You could have anything you want. You could choose not to be a witcher!” the djinn offers him in Yennefer’s voice, her eyes red as blood, and for a second Geralt is tempted. If the djinn can reverse the trials, then maybe it would also be able to cure what is wrong with him. He could actually love Jaskier.

But then Yennefer groans in pain and he knows that he can’t leave her to this fate. So instead he orders the djinn away, binding himself to her in its place.

It all goes downhill from there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does it count as a cliffhanger if we all know what will happen? Anyway, I'll try to have the next chapter up soon. Prepare for some Yennefer & Jaskier bonding!
> 
> Comments are always welcome :)


	3. Chapter 3

Jaskier thought that he knew heartbreak.

He still remembers the pain of rejection when the Countess de Stael had tossed him aside. The way he had only been able to find respite in his music, literally playing his fingers bloody when he kept plucking away despite the blisters. It is a horrible memory, but one that he has grown around and that has served as inspiration for many of his songs.

This is much worse. While the Countess de Stael had discarded him without even giving him a chance, Geralt has been his companion for literal decades. Jaskier has loved the witcher (and been loved in return, surely, though they never put it into words) for more than half of his life. Their love might not have been the kind to sing about (except Jaskier had let it influence so many of his songs, never mentioned outright but always there for anyone who listened), but he had always been certain in the knowledge that Geralt loved him in his own way, much as Jaskier did. 

They had been friends, lovers, and yet something else entirely. Jaskier doesn’t know the words to describe them, doesn’t think they exist in any language he knows, but he has always trusted in their bond. Now all of it has been ripped away and he is forced to question if it was ever really there or if it was only a figment of his imagination all along.

There is no respite in music this time either. The great majority of songs, the ones most requested whenever he plays, are all about Geralt. There is no escape from the memories or the pain. So Jaskier does what he can and makes the best out of the situation. He puts all his pain and heartbreak into one song, sings his entire heart out even as his voice breaks. _I’m weak my love, and I am wanting._

Oh, he wants so much.

The song is well received even though it is so different from his usual repertoire and it spreads fast enough to quickly overtake him. Soon people start requesting _Her Sweet Kiss_ even in the towns he has never set foot in before. Jaskier very carefully does not think about Geralt listening to the song, wherever he is.

He knows he is in trouble when Yennefer finds him.

As fate would have it, the sorceress strides into the tavern in the middle of his set, right as he repeats the chorus of _Her Sweet Kiss_ one last time. Jaskier nearly chokes on the words when he spots her. Oh gods, she will kill him.

As if she has read his thoughts – she might have, for all he knows – Yennefer raises one delicately drawn eyebrow in challenge and Jaskier abruptly decides _fuck it_. Fuck _her_.

He finishes the song with more flourish than strictly necessary before he excuses himself, announcing that he will take a quick break to wet his throat.

Yennefer is sipping a glass of wine that Jaskier is pretty certain isn’t sold by the tavern. She has chosen a table on the far side of the room, sufficiently far away from the other guests to not immediately be noticed or overheard. It reminds Jaskier painfully of Geralt even as he plasters an easy smile on his face and slides onto the chair opposite of hers.

“Fancy seeing you here. I would say it’s a pleasure, but then I would be lying.” His smile is mostly teeth, far from his best performance, but then again hers is no different. “I didn’t think you would deign to visit a lowly tavern when you could twist some mayor’s head and steal their residence,” he continues. “Or have you already destroyed all local guildhalls and mansions with your little magical mishaps?”

It is admittedly a rather weak jibe and Yennefer doesn’t even pretend to take offense. “Don’t strain your pretty little head, bard. If you must know, I am currently residing with the very generous Count Reuven of Novigrad. Though I'm sure your accommodation has its charms as well.” She casts a pointed look around the (perfectly respectable, thank you very much) tavern. The contemptuous sneer on her face reminds him distinctly of the time his etiquette tutor had found him hiding in the stables. “It is very… quaint. To each their own, as they say.”

“Indeed.” Jaskier returns the sneer with equal fervour. He did learn from the best. “If you are in Redania, you must visit my family’s manor at Lettenhove some time. I’m sure it must get exhausting to wander from estate to estate without being able to call any of them home.”

He has never hidden behind his title like this before, but her presence has caught him wrong-footed. Maybe it is a good idea to remind her that he is more than Jaskier the bard, especially since Jaskier doesn’t feel very illustrious right now.

He immediately comes to regret his decision when he notices the speculative look in Yennefer’s eyes. Of course she would take the invitation literally, even if only to annoy him. He has a momentary vision of Yennefer showing up at his parents’ doorstep and isn’t quite sure whether to laugh or to cry.

It is a familiar feeling.

All of a sudden, Jaskier feels exceedingly tired.

“This has been absolutely no fun. So if that’s all…” he trails off, hoping against hope that Yennefer will take the hint and leave. But of course it can’t be that easy.

Yennefer only waves at him, making no move to get up herself. “Oh, go ahead and finish your set. I have come far enough to hear you play.”

Because that’s not suspicious at all. Jaskier frowns at her, but she is still sipping her wine with a pleasant smile, obviously intending to keep up the feigned casualness. When he glances back at the tavern in search of an escape route the innkeeper catches his eyes and nods towards his lute. Their deal had been music and song for a night in exchange for a room, food and ale and the man is obviously keen for Jaskier to fulfil his side of the bargain, though he must be intelligent enough to steer clear of Yennefer. Jaskier wishes he had the same option.

Maybe she will actually leave once he has sung a few songs and she grows tired of his voice. After all, unlike Geralt she has never made a secret of how much of a nuisance he is to her. 

_Here’s to hope_ , Jaskier thinks as he grabs his lute with a sigh and takes a second to slip back into his on-stage persona. The well-trained smile comes almost on its own as he steps in front of the small crowd. 

He feels petty enough to avoid any songs about Geralt for the rest of the night, playing everything from well-known drinking songs to his own lesser-known ballads and sticking to a single rendition of _Toss a Coin_ when his audience clamours for his trademark songs. It’s far from his best performance, but the crowd – and most importantly, the innkeeper – seems happy enough when he finally concludes his gig.

Unfortunately, Yennefer is also still there, sipping from a full wine glass (though he hasn’t seen anyone approach her table to refill it) with a bored expression. For a moment Jaskier considers walking right by her to his room. But he has been promised food and drink and he thinks the innkeeper will appreciate his tavern still standing in the morning, so he grabs a plate of potatoes and meat and a mug of ale before he wanders back over to her table.

Yennefer doesn’t say anything as he digs into the food. When his ale runs low, she gestures for one of the waitstaff. The girl can’t be more than 20 summers and she approaches the table warily. She is pretty enough, all dark hair and wide brown eyes, though Jaskier can't help but notice the way she is dragging her left leg. A childhood accident, most likely. 

“Two mugs of your finest honey mead,” Yennefer orders with an uncharacteristically honest smile. “On the bard’s tab.”

The girl nods quickly and hurries off again towards the kitchen. Jaskier glares at Yennefer, opening his mouth to protest, but she cuts him off. “You must have made more than enough coin singing about me. I figured it’s past time I cash in on the situation if you’re so determined to ruin my reputation.”

Jaskier huffs. “’Ruin’ would imply that you had any sort of positive reputation in the first place.”

“You admit that the song is about me, then?”

He snaps his mouth shut, glare darkening as the girl comes back with two large mugs of mead. _Fuck._

Yennefer gives the girl another one of those too-real smiles and goes so far to nod her thanks as she sets the mugs on the table. Jaskier tries to decipher some kind of hidden meaning in the gesture - but maybe she merely wants to show that it's only _him_ she hates. In any case, the girl hesitantly returns the nod before she hurries away again, looking slightly less afraid. Jaskier waits for the sorceress to continue their conversation, but Yennefer only takes a long drink from her mug, leaning back in her chair.

“I haven’t had honey mead in ages. You should try it” she advises, gesturing to his untouched mug. Jaskier has to take a deep breath and remind himself that it would be a very, _very_ bad idea to anger her. Well, anger her any further.

“Why are you here, Yennefer?”

Her eyes are like amethyst, hard and unreadable. “I heard stories about a little bard with a broken heart singing and drinking his way across the continent. Your song isn’t exactly subtle.” She takes another drink, staring at Jaskier until he copies her. “I didn’t know you and Geralt were like that.”

Jaskier’s laugh is harsher than intended because his voice breaks in the middle of it. “Obviously we weren’t. Is that what you came to hear? How I deluded myself into thinking that we were in l-” The word gets stuck in his throat and he switches tracks without pausing. “…that we had something, something special? How the stupid, blind bard got his little heart broken?” He is breathing heavily, he realises, hands clenched around the mug he is still clutching. “I’m not in the mood for storytelling today. Very sorry to disappoint.”

Yennefer remains unnervingly calm. “I didn’t think Geralt was the type to fall in love.”

Jaskier laughs again because he’s afraid that he will start crying otherwise and he refuses to cry in front of _her_. “That’s the whole problem, isn’t it?”

The mead is sweet on his tongue when he takes another sip, swirling it around in his mouth. It really is excellent. Some part of his mind is chiming in alarm, wondering if – or rather, why – Yennefer is trying to get him drunk. It won’t take much more after the full mug of ale he’s just had.

Ah, fuck it. It’s not like she could make him more miserable than he is feeling right now.

“We weren’t exactly _in love_ in love,” Jaskier explains, not entirely certain why he bothers trying to make her understand at all. Yennefer’s raised eyebrow tells him exactly what she thinks of his articulateness and he huffs. “We aren’t… we weren’t romantic. I’m not like that.”

“You don’t fall in love.”

“Oh, I fall in love far too easily,” Jaskier corrects her with a self-deprecating smile. His mother always used to tell him to take care of his heart. Too bad he had never listened. “Just not the way most people apparently do. I love music and the smell of rain and people with all their little particularities. I love… I love Geralt.”

There, he has said it. 

Yennefer nods, accepting his words with surprising ease. But then again, she is a sorceress and decades older than him. She has probably met people who feel this way before. Jaskier knows he can’t be the only one whose love is… different.

“And Geralt returned your feelings?”

“I thought so.” Jaskier shrugs. “Apparently I was wrong, though. He would’ve hardly tried binding you to himself if he felt that way for me.”

Yennefer’s laugh startles him with how honest it sounds. “I wouldn’t be so sure. People are sometimes very, very stupid. Even Geralt. Maybe especially him.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Jaskier raises his mug (which is still suspiciously heavy and full, even though he knows he should have drunk at least half of it already. But then again, he _is_ drinking with a sorceress). Yennefer meets him halfway to clink their cups together. 

“I don’t think Geralt really considered what he was doing when he made his wish. Did you know that he gave me a little speech about freedom right afterwards?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “He told me that the djinn would be harmless now that it was free and asked me after the last time I felt happy when I felt trapped. The irony, the hypocrisy… it’s almost amusing.”

Despite her words, Yennefer’s smile doesn’t hold any humour. Jaskier knows the pain in her eyes only too well. He sees it every time he looks in a mirror.

“You love him,” he realises suddenly.

Yennefer tenses as if gearing up for a fight, before she apparently thinks better of it and instead lets out a long breath. “I don’t know. In some way, perhaps. But I will never know how much of it is truly myself and how much is… magic.”

“He took away your choice.”

“You, little bard, are surprisingly perceptive.”

It’s a very obvious attempt at evasion, but Jaskier doesn’t call her out on it. He has too many problems and insecurities of is own to mock what is likely a well-learned wariness. Plus, he finds that he enjoys this truce between them. Not least of all because it keeps the mead flowing, though he is sure that she will find some way to put it on his tab later.

“You have magic, though,” Jaskier says suddenly, shooting a quick glare at Yennefer when the corners of her mouth twitch upwards at his astute observation. “Couldn’t you undo the wish?”

“It’s not that easy. Djinn magic is… different from human magic.”

Jaskier nods, filing away this new bit of information in case it ever comes up again. Not that he plans on releasing another djinn ever. The one experience was horrible enough to fuel his nightmares for years. Dreams of losing his voice, the taste of blood in his throat, of Geralt lying still and pale under the rubble of the collapsed house…

Jaskier takes a long drink of mead to chase away the sudden metallic taste on his tongue. His head is already swimming slightly, while Yennefer looks regal as ever. Mages probably get the same resistance to alcohol that witchers have. Why does he always end up drinking with people who can't get drunk?

“So you’ll keep avoiding Geralt because he likes you too much, while I’ll keep lamenting that he doesn't like me after all” he sums up. “A right mess we are.”

“You aren’t bound to Geralt, though," Yennefer argues. "You could always decide to leave all of this behind. The continent is large – you could start anew where no one knows the witcher’s little bard, or return home after all. I might even take you up on your invitation and come visit.”

“That’s certainly a tempting offer.” Jaskier grins to soften the sarcasm behind his words and is startled when Yennefer returns it with a smile of her own – not the normal malicious sneer, but the real little smile she gave the serving girl earlier. It makes him realise that for all his sarcasm, the words do have a true ring to them.

_Oh gods_ , does this mean that he _likes_ Yennefer now?

“I don’t think we’re quite that far yet, though I certainly feel flattered.”

Jaskier must look as flabbergasted as he feels, if her laughter is any indication. She doesn’t stop even when he scowls, pointing his finger at her in admonishment. “Mind reading isn’t fair play!”

His petulance only makes her giggle which, in turn, shocks him into silence. Yennefer just _giggled_. He didn’t think the sorceress could produce such an undignified sound. 

“Jaskier, if you don’t want others to know your thoughts, try not to speak them out loud next time.”

Oh. Well, that certainly is another explanation. He might have had a tad much to drink after all.

He says as much and Yennefer tilts her head to one side, eyes growing distant for a moment as if she is listening to a far-away sound. When she straightens back up, the look she sends him is almost impressed.

“Three mugs of mead might have been a bit much” she agrees. Jaskier feels his mouth fall open, eyes bulging as they flicker between her and his (still filled to the brim) mug. Yen doesn’t look very apologetic when he groans, letting is head sink down until his forehead rests on the table. His hangover tomorrow will be legendary. 

“This is why I hate magic” Jaskier declares, though it comes out more like a mumble since his face is still pressed against the table. Yennefer snorts.

“And here I thought you were beginning to like me.”

“Lies. Lies and slander.”

“I don’t know. Is it slander if the words came from your own mouth?”

Jaskier rolls his head to the side, cheek still against the wood as he gazes up at her. “I’m a bard” he reminds her. “Slander is what we do.”

“Then you’re not very good at what you do, seeing how you’ve changed the public standing of witchers over the past decades.”

Jaskier blinks several times, wondering if his ears are deceiving him. “Was that an actual compliment? Hidden as an insult?”

“Don’t get used to it” Yennefer warns, and Jaskier huffs, letting his eyes slide closed when his lids grow too heavy.

“Wouldn’t think of it. Don’t worry, you’re still very intimidating.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

There is a hand in Jaskier’s hair, but he is too tired to care. Or maybe he trusts Yennefer not to try anything. It’s a very strange feeling. Before he can examine it further, Yen’s voice sounds again. “I’ll send you off to sleep. Humans and your low alcohol tolerance, really.”

Jaskier grumbles, burrowing his head further into the table that is suddenly surprisingly soft and- oh, it’s his pillow. There is a quiet laugh above him.

“Sleep well, little bard.”

Jaskier doesn’t reply, already halfway asleep.

When he wakes the next morning, there isn’t so much as a trace of a headache. On the opposite, he feels better than he has in a long time. Jaskier stretches his arms and legs, feeling his joints pop. 

_Maybe Yennefer’s visit last night was only a very strange dream_ , he considers, before he spots the lilac umbel resting innocently on the little table next to his bed. _Alright, not a dream then._ It does make him feel like he has accidentally slipped into one of his own songs, where people actually _do_ things like leaving flowers to remind everyone of their presence, but he can certainly appreciate the dramatic flair of the gesture. 

It is with some trepidation that he climbs down the steps into the main tavern room. If Yennefer’s visit was real, then he doesn't even want to imagine the size of his tab. But the innkeeper seems happy enough to see him, ushering him over to a table with the promise that breakfast will be along shortly.

Jaskier grimaces, thinking of how light his coin pouch is already. "How much for a bowl of porridge?”

The innkeeper seems surprised for a moment before his face clears up. “Ah, she didn’t tell you. Don’t worry. Your tab for last night and this morning has already been paid in full by your lady friend.”

It takes a second before he realises that the ‘friend’ in question must be Yennefer. The innkeeper has already disappeared before Jaskier can correct him. He is still frowning in puzzlement when the man returns, the serving girl from last night behind him, to set a veritable feast of porridge, fresh fruit and bread with honey on the table in front of Jaskier. _Melitele's tits_ , how much has Yennefer paid them?

Jaskier can't worry about the amount of coin for too long as he bites into the bread, honey dripping down on the plate and making his fingers sticky. It's the best breakfast he has had in... since he left Oxenfurt to become a travelling bard, probably.

 _Maybe the inkeep was right after all_ , he considers, licking his fingers clean. He might have actually made a friend last night.

The thought is surprisingly pleasant, nearly as sweet as the honey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure I managed to capture Yennefer's voice, but I just love their friendship. I'd appreciate a quick comment whether you thought she was written okay or if she was too out of character, though.
> 
> The next chapter should be up by Saturday, see you then!


	4. Chapter 4

“You are a fucking idiot.”

Geralt doesn’t startle when Yennefer appears out of thin air, but it’s a near thing. He grits his teeth, keeping his eyes very carefully straight ahead as he picks his way across the empty field, leading Roach behind him. Thin wisps of mist are wafting across the trampled grass and torn-up earth, obscuring the ground and giving everything a dream-like atmosphere. Though ‘nightmarish’ might be a better word to describe this place.

“Yennefer. I’m kind of busy at the moment.”

Of course the sorceress ignores his objection completely.

“No, idiot is a word too kind to describe this mess. Though honestly, I don’t think there _is_ a fitting word in any of the languages I know. I would ask you what you were thinking… but then again, we both know that that’s not one of your strong suits.”

Geralt grunts, not daring to take his eyes off the ground as he carefully steps across a dented helmet. Was that a movement in the mist? Or merely another crow come to feast on the remains of the recent battle?

“See, this is exactly what I’m talking about,” Yennefer complains, hands on her hips as she very purposefully steps right in front of him, forcing Geralt to stop and look at her. She is dressed for travelling, he notes absently, the usual elaborate costume exchanged for a more practical combination of a simple black and white dress over a diaphanous black shirt. She looks just as beautiful as always. And also extremely annoyed. “Would it _hurt_ you to use actual words for once? I can see where the rumours emerged that paint witchers as mere beasts.”

The blow lands. Geralt feels his hands clench around the hilt of his sword and he has to work consciously to relax them again. He can’t seize up when the time comes.

“Yennefer,” he says warningly and the sorceress actually has the decency to look a little guilty, even if she doesn’t take her words back.

“You should be grateful I decided to come here at all,” Yennefer says instead, crossing her arms. “I have a letter of safe conduct and a much more… eloquent gentleman waiting for me in Nazair.”

The way her eyes flicker down as she draws out the words leave no uncertainty about the innuendo, but Geralt only snorts. Knowing Yennefer, he doubts that she would ever truly support Nilfgaard, if only because of the ale they prefer over her much-favoured wines. Not that he cares overly much. She’s made very clear that she is prepared to separate their fates by mere force of will if need be and he’s busy enough trying to find his child surprise in a country torn by war. If he survives the recent onslaught of necrophages, that is.

Jaskier would laugh at him, Geralt muses, if he could see Geralt fighting so hard for something that he has run from for so long. 

(He might laugh, but he would nonetheless do his damnedest to help with the search-)

Geralt pushes away the familiar sting of pain. He doesn’t deserve the bard’s help anyway.

“Why are you here, Yennefer?” 

“Funny. Jaskier asked me the exact same thing.”

It takes a moment for the words to register. Jaskier has been on his mind so much recently that the mention of his name doesn’t seem out of place. At least until Geralt’s brain catches up and he realises that this is Yennefer who has absolutely no reason to talk to Jaskier, who doesn’t even like the bard-

His grasp on the sword tightens again and only self-preservation (and, loathe as he is to admit it even to himself, his old selfish hope, the hunger for anything concerning the bard) prevent Geralt from raising it against the sorceress.

“What have you done?”

The words sound more like a growl than a human voice, full of suppressed fury (not fear, he refuses to be afraid, Jaskier is _safe_ -)

Yennefer only makes a _tsk_ sound, rolling her eyes. “No need to be so dramatic. We only had a conversation. And a few glasses of surprisingly delicious mead. Who knew Kaedwen had such excellent breweries?”

 _Kaedwen._ The part of Geralt that hungers for information, that would do anything to know how Jaskier is doing, laps up the knowledge greedily. If the bard is in Kaedwen, he will at least be safe from the war. And once Geralt has found Cirilla, they will have to travers Kaedwen to get to Kaer Morhen-

He quashes the thought with cruel, well-practiced efficiency and starts moving again, simply walking around Yennefer. He can’t let his attention stray. The recent battles and skirmishes have attracted plenty of ghouls and other necrophages. A bite could mean his death and then he will never see Cirilla again. _Or Jaskier._

“You’re not even going to ask how he is doing?” Yennefer calls behind him.

Geralt feels his jaws tense. “He’s better of without me. I have a job to do.”

“Oh, for-”

Yennefer mutters something under her breath that even his witcher senses can’t pick up on and a second later a gust of wind sweeps across the field, dissipating the mist to reveal the traces of the fight underneath. The corpses have all suspiciously disappeared, but the battered pieces of armour and bloodened swords tell a story of their own. Then another wave of magic passes through Geralt and there is a shriek several metres to their left, followed by more groans and screeches ahead as the ghouls suddenly dissolve into dust. 

Geralt stops to observe, scowling as the field comes alive for a second before finally, permanently falling silent. _There were so many._

“Will you listen to me now?” Yennefer demands, sounding not even the slightest bit out of breath. Geralt is reluctantly impressed. Still, he continues on his way across the field.

“We have nothing to talk about.”

“You owe me this much, Geralt.”

It’s her quiet tone that makes him pause more than anything. Yennefer continues before he can start walking again. “And you also owe as much to Jaskier.”

Geralt wants to protest, wants to deny everything, but. If she has spoken with Jaskier, she knows. She knows what Geralt has done, how much he has once again failed those who dared to love him.

“Your little bard is drinking his way across the continent, singing about heartbreak. Come on, Geralt. You must have heard the song.”

He hasn’t, actually, what with having spent the past weeks on a mad dash back to Cintra, only to end up locked in their dungeons. Still, his heart twists at the thought that wherever Jaskier is, he is still singing about Geralt, about them.

“ _‘But the story is this, she destroys with her sweet kiss’_ ,” Yennefer quotes and Geralt can hear the smirk in her voice. “Honestly, I would feel flattered if I thought that I truly played that much of a role in what you’ve done.”

She hasn’t, though, and they both know it. Yennefer might have been the spark in the powder keg, but the danger had been smouldering for much longer, fuelled by all of Geralt’s deficiencies and shortcomings. Until it had exploded in the worst way, destroying Jaskier just as much as himself.

No, none of this was ever really Yennefer’s fault. Geralt is the only one to blame.

“Jaskier is better off on his own.”

The silence that meets his words lasts long enough that Geralt glances back, half expecting Yennefer to have disappeared again. Instead the sorceress is staring at him, her expression clearly stating just how bewildered she is by the level of stupidity around her. Finally, she pinches the bridge of her nose, closing her eyes with a sigh as if to stave off an oncoming migraine.

“I can’t deal with your problems right now. Or ever, if we are being honest. But Geralt, even you have to see how much of an asshole you are right now. At least go and apologize to the man. He has endured you for two entire decades, he deserves as much.”

She is right and they both know it, but it won’t make this any easier. Geralt has made so many mistakes. If he stays away, Jaskier at least won’t have to learn of his greatest flaw. He will never see the disgust in the bard’s eyes when he realises how much of a monster Geralt is. The revulsion at himself for having _loved_ such a monster.

 _Singing about heartbreak_ , a traitorous part of Geralt’s mind whispers. It certainly gives away how Jaskier had felt about him.

“You couldn’t even stand Jaskier until recently,” he accuses Yennefer, trying to distract himself from his own thoughts. “What changed?”

“We talked.” The smile she gives him looks like a challenge. “See what can happen when people talk?”

“I have to find my child surprise,” he says instead of addressing the obvious rebuke. Cirilla is a child and in active danger from Nilfgaard. For all his recklessness, Geralt has never truly doubted that Jaskier can fend for himself. 

Well. Hasn’t doubted it since he actually got to know the bard, at least.

Yennefer’s low exhale somehow manages to convey exactly how _done_ she is with Geralt without uttering a single word. “Then promise me that you will reach out and apologize once you have found them.”

“It might take months. Jaskier will have gotten over- over whatever he is feeling by then.”

“ _Geralt_.”

His name is a thinly veiled threat on her lips and Geralt grits his teeth. Clearly, she won’t leave without a promise. Whatever Jaskier has said to her, he must have gained Yennefer’s respect. Not that Geralt can blame her. The bard is far too easy to like, once one gets past the constant chatter (starts believing that Jaskier isn't just saying things, that he actually means it-)

“If you will finally let me travel in peace," he says at last. "I swear that I will reach out to Jaskier once the child surprise is safe. If he still wants an apology, he can have it.”

Yennefer considers him for a moment, then she nods. “Good luck with your search. I hear Cirilla was seen near Brokilon Forest some time ago.”

 _Brokilon Forest._ No more than a two days' ride from here. It's the first lead Geralt has gotten since Cirilla's trail went cold several days ago.

"Thank you."

Yennefer doesn't reply, already turning away. A quick gesture is enough to open a portal and Geralt gets a whiff of desert air, the scent of sand and sweat and heat extremely out of place in the moist fields of Cintra. Yennefer is about to step through when she hesitates, looking back at him once more. 

“I still haven’t forgiven you for taking away my choice. Don’t make the same mistake twice, or I might not be so merciful next time.”

The portal closes around her before Geralt can think of a reply. The last thing he sees is her smile, burning like the sweetest poison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter, plus the epilogue! It's all written already, so now I only have to find the time to edit.
> 
> Tell me what you thought of this chapter? Good or bad, I'm open for critique.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Specific warnings:** Geralt believes that not feeling romantic love makes him inhuman (which is a very common theme in aphobia). While Jaskier experiences being aromantic as "loving in a different way", Geralt equates his experience with an overall lack of love or emotions.
> 
> While I'm aspec myself, my orientation isn't the same as Geralt's or Jaskier's in this fic. If you have any comments (positive or negative), I'll be happy to hear them. If you need me to tag anything, please comment or send me a message


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